


So It Goes

by strangeh (Elfgrandfather)



Series: Putin/Medvedev Archaeological Dig (Old Fics) [1]
Category: Political RPF - Russian 21st c.
Genre: Closeted Character, Infidelity, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 09:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18736198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/strangeh
Summary: Moments of private pining, from immediate post-Soviet St. Petersburg to Moscow on the eve of Dmitry Medvedev's election.





	So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> This was written some time before 2010, probably 2009 or so, when I was in my mid-teens, so excuse the wobbly quality of the work. I gave it a cursory once-over to remove anything particularly awkward (grammatically, that is...)
> 
> If I wrote this now, I'd definitely include more about the utter clusterfuck that was 90s Russia! Use your imagination and pretend everything off-frame is terrible.

The first thing I noticed about him were his eyes. How could I not? Big, greyish-blue affairs, flanked by long fluttering eyelashes. Women’s eyes, almost, if it weren’t for the bags underneath them. I’d stared into them when I first shook his hand. He smiled at me, and I returned the favour. He was sincere. I was not.

It isn’t that I disliked him, really. He was young, but not stupid; intelligent, but not smug; handsome, but not too much. I suppose I could have disliked his infuriating normality. Even his name was pleasant. Dmitry Anatolevich Medvedev. Son of a bear indeed. His forearms were coated with brown curly hair, matching the locks on his head, and I'd often while away the day spying on the trail disappearing into a shirtsleeve, being crushed under a watch, rising when a cold breeze swept the office. He couldn’t have been older than thirty when we met. He hadn’t even left university yet, despite having finished his studies. Fear of abandonment. I thought it pathetic.

We didn’t socialize very much, at first. I was older and higher-placed, after all, even though we were both only working for another man to get elected, and he seemed slightly wary of me. A history in the KGB tends to alienate people. I didn’t mind -- I didn’t particularly desire the company of anyone I worked with on that campaign. But as time went by, he started to grow interested. Young people tend to do that. The danger aspect excites them. I'd charmed favours out of a few interns by taking advantage of this.

But I didn’t want to do that, this time. I suppose his childlike disposition did it; he was perfectly charming, but I wanted to ruffle his hair and give him a sweet more than bend him over a table. For now, I contented myself with entertaining him over a glass of whiskey or vodka, or a pot of tea and side order of pastries so he’d be happy. I would talk and he would listen, drinking in every word like the liquid I poured in his glass, and he’d often interrupt to ask questions. I liked that about him: he had a sense of initiative. I took to inviting him to my house, trying to get my wife to go shopping or whatever women like to do before he arrived. She knew the score. I liked being able to talk to him in private, between men. It seemed logical.

On his birthday, about a year after we met, I gave him a present. He was flustered and thanked me profusely, eagerly tearing off the paper, but thinking better of it and carefully placing the rectangular box in his briefcase.

‘I don’t want to ruin the surprise,’ he explained, grinning at me. I smiled back. Sincerely.

The next day, he wrote up figures with the dark blue pen I had bought for him two days prior, flashing me smiles ever so often, and my heart beat just a little faster.

\--

‘What did you do in the KGB?’

I looked at him. We’d been drinking steadily for the past few hours, that much was true, but I wasn’t expecting a question like that. I glanced back at my glass, swirling the amber liquid. Whiskey, this time. He moved his hands in large gestures, apologizing wildly, stuttering, even. It was fun to watch.

‘I-I don’t mean any details or anything, you-you know, I mean — general terms! I mean, of course, we all know the basics, but it sounds so — so interesting, and reading about it isn’t ever the same as hearing about it— I-‘

That kind of thing.

I smiled at him, then focused on my drink again, clinking the ice cubes against the borders of the glass. I had been asked about it before, of course, in more roundabout ways. I didn’t really want to answer him, even though his brutal honesty was tempting to reply to. He’d lose his child’s enthusiasm. What had I done in the KGB… so much. And I regretted so little. Being an agent had been a childhood dream, and fulfilling it had exceeded all my expectations. It was bliss.

But I couldn’t explain it to him. He wouldn’t understand. He loved guns, like a schoolboy does, but his brain wasn’t wired that way. Some people are born to watch, others to act, and we both had to keep to our roles.

My eyes met his. There was a glimmer of excitement in there, a hope of hearing a James Bond-like adventure.

‘What I did in the KGB,’ I said, ‘was kill people.’

He never mentioned it again.

\--

I was left standing with the packet in my hands, staring at it. Dima, as he had us call him, looked at me expectantly. It was the seventh of October. I still don’t know how he found out.

‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’ he asked eagerly. I didn’t look very impressed, true, but I was secretly thrilled. I was starting to want him, but I still respected him. This hadn’t happened before.

I smirked.

‘I don’t want to ruin the surprise.’

The next day, my new black pen slid over my assignments with more vigour than the old one.

\--

He’d fallen asleep. On the way back from a bar one night, he’d asked for a lift, and sunk into slumber minutes after sitting in the passenger seat, face stripped naked of any sort of façade he might have attempted.

The dashboard lights bouncing off his hair and eyelashes, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks reddened with drink. He’d worn a sensible turtleneck sweater, but it looked very hot on his sleeping figure.

Parking in front of his apartment, I stared at him for minutes, features illuminated by the stark contrast of the black night and the solitary orange streetlight, the only one working on this street. I was glad we were in St Petersburg, instead of a smaller city. I needed this light, this intimate moment, this beauty he was sharing with me. My hand reached outwards and gently stroked his thigh, travelling to the bottom of his shirt, and slipping a few fingers under the material…

His breath hitched, and I slid my hand out.

‘Dima.’ I shook his arm. ‘Dima, wake up. I can let you sleep in the car, you know, but I won’t stand guard if you decide to do it.’

Though of course I would have.

His eyes fluttered open, and he grinned at me sheepishly, fumbling for his keys. I bent over him to open the door, breathing out as I felt the heat of his body against mine, and sped off as he waved goodbye, looking at him in the rear-view mirror as he made his way back home, nearly tripping on cracks in the pavement.

\--

They all congratulated him. Joked, poked him, slapped him on the back, called him a man. He laughed with them, the sunlight catching the new ring on his finger. There was such a commotion around him, he didn’t notice my absence. Just as well. I would have liked to break his hand, twist his arm behind his back, slap his face, anything to punish him. It was treason. Treason! Of course, he’d mentioned a girlfriend on our nights out, but anyone could have a girlfriend. Getting engaged to your childhood sweetheart was something you’d think one would mention.

When he turned to me and grinned, tapping his pen in my direction like he sometimes did when he was in a good mood, it seemed like a kick when I was already down. The insolence, the pure insolence in the gesture made me sick with rage. I returned the wave with my own pen, then stood up and walked to the corridor, towards the bathroom. After locking the door to the men’s, I pulled open the window, the cold metal resisting in my hands, bent my arm back to gather momentum, and threw the pen as far as I could make it go.

I never asked about the wedding.

\--

The bar closed, and Dima stumbled out, leaning against me. I walked along with him, managing a straight line. This hadn’t been a trip to get me drunk, after all. It had been for him. And it had worked like a charm. Dima was barely conscious, giggling away whenever his feet got tangled up with each other and relying on me for most of his support. We melded into the crowd quite well. This kind of thing is the norm more than the exception on a Friday night in Moscow.

The train carriage was empty. I’d usually just have driven, but felt a twang of guilt at having Dima as a passenger. I couldn't put him in undue danger. Dima was long gone, snoring against my shoulder, crimson vodka blush less intense now we were out of the cold. My fingers glanced over his hair. He looked so peaceful. So perfect.

Perfect, apart from that shred of gold on his finger.

I concentrated on his face instead, moving his head into the crook of my neck and shoulder, which he promptly snuggled into. Almost by accident, with such deliberate casualness, I pressed my closed lips to his forehead, and he didn’t twitch.

And then, I felt ridiculous.

What was I expecting? I’d basically downed bottles into a man, having to encourage him by drinking myself, buzzing with dark thoughts of what this could lead to. What the hell else could it lead to than this? Dima was borderline comatose, some sort of torrid night was quite obviously straight out. It wouldn’t even be a warm night. Or a cold one. Sub-polar would be the accurate description. More excitement out past the Urals.

I sighed and rubbed my cheek over the top of his head. His hair was thick, but not coarse. I repeated the action, taking in his smell. His cologne was overpowered by a miasma of cheap cigarettes. Automatically, I leaned forward, and our lips touched before I realized what was happening and pulled back, blood rushing to my face. Years in the secret service, all for this kind of self-control? The tinny annoucement of his stop rang out, and I shook him awake.

While walking him home with a steadying hand on his shoulder, he smiled at me, looking like a guilty teenager, then looked down. ‘Guess I went a little overboard with the booze, huh?’ he laughed, fumbling for his keys.

I smiled back. ‘Nothing unmanageable. You’ll be fine tomorrow.’

‘Oh, boss won’t be pleased,’ he said, nodding at the looming estate behind him, ‘she doesn’t like me to- to go out at the best of times, but, uh, now she’s pregnant, rules’re a lot tougher.’

My smile froze in place.

‘Pregnant?’

‘Yeah, couple of months in. But it's still a secret, so shh,' he breathed, grinning widely. ‘It's a boy, y'know? A boy.’

I thought of my own two daughters and nodded weakly. Dima finally found his keys and gave me a pat on the hand, clumsily toddling off through the front door.

I watched him disappear into the building and turned on my heel, marching back to the metro. Consolation was in order, and I knew a little place with charming boys who wanted nothing more than to offer it.

\--

Dima nearly dropped his cup. He looked at me, mouth agape, blinking rapidly.

‘You’re going to do what?’

‘You don’t think it’s a good idea?’ I replied, stirring my tea.

‘Well- it is, it is a good idea, certainly, but… it’s a shock, sorry!’ He forced a smile, as he always did when he was nervous, but his grin soon softened and become more natural. I lifted the drink to my lips, staring at him. He was becoming a bit chubby, after the birth of his boy. I’d need to try and sprinkle the conversation with casual references to the gym.

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll be great, and you have my full support, of course. Do you and Boris Nikolayevich have everything worked out?’

‘Oh,’ I said, dunking a biscuit into my cup, ‘just one or two details left, that’s all.’

\--

‘You can’t,’ he said, shakily adjusting himself in his seat, ‘you can’t, it’s just not on.’

I smiled. I’d had this conversation with so many of Yeltsin’s cronies you’d think he picked dirty old men on purpose. Probably so he had people to relate to.

‘I think you’ll find that with these,’ I purred, waving the photographs at him, ‘I very well can.’

He cursed at me.

A few months later, I was inaugurated as President of the Russian Federation.

\--

The after-party was glorious. I’d never felt more satisfied. Finally in charge of the entire country, in control of every little thing that went on inside it. It felt wonderful, and my being filled up with vodka didn’t hurt either. The balcony had beckoned and I was desperate for a breath of fresh air, the air in the hall full of smoke and heat and marvel. The cold air whipped against my skin, and I worked to further loosen my tie, undoing the top button of my shirt.

I did feel like another drink though, and turned, nearly walking into Dima. Not a hard task, as he’d recently gravely expanded in volume. It really wasn’t appropriate; the hints would need to be dropped more heavily.

‘Ah, Dmitry Anatolevich,’ I said cheerfully, indicating the bottle in his hand, ‘an accomplished mind-reader as well as a gentleman, I see. Top me up, if you please.’

He generously filled my glass, skipping over to my side and plopping the bottle down on the thick balcony railing. I have to admit I had been rather neglecting him for the past few hours, but he’d brought his wife along for the celebration and she did nothing to contribute to my festive mood. I was glad to finally have him at my side, alone.

‘I shall meet with Boris soon enough, and he’ll give me a quick tour, if you’d like to accompany me, Dima.’

Dima’s face flushed with pride. ‘I’d be allowed to? Really? That would be amazing, Volodya!’

He had been let into the small circle of people allowed to call me this without fear of waking up tied to a chair in a dark room. Putka, however, had and will always be a name only my parents could use. I’d like to retain some modicum of dignity.

‘It will be, Dima. Then again, you’ll be walking around the offices yourself, won’t you? You’ll have every reason to be there.’

He beamed at me, taking a quick drink and looking towards the door. His wife was faintly audible in the distance. Shrew.

‘Duty calls,’ he said, apologetically, ‘you know how mothers are about leaving their children, even under good care. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

And then I felt his hand close around my own. It was a friendly touch, a chaste touch, obviously. But my heart stopped as his gaze locked with mine, and he grinned at me. A second later, he was gone.

The bottle remained on the balcony. I drank it to the last drop.

\--

The camping holiday with Albert had been satisfactory. A fun couple of days, spent fishing, mostly. The Monacan Prince wasn’t a bad fellow, really, though he could do with some more exercise. The press had obediently waited around and snapped pictures of us, with some insistence on the camera when yours truly removed the shirt.

And it had been a fine idea. The people liked it tremendously.

When I came back to the office, a shade tanner than everyone else, I thought I saw a slight glimmer in Dima’s eye, and noticed a magazine with a full spread of the trip resting on his desk, a picture of the Russian President on the cover.

I smiled at him.

\--

‘Are you nervous?’

Dima smiled anxiously.

‘Don’t be nervous.’

He nodded, adjusting his tie again. The results of the election would air any minute now. I wasn’t worried. I knew as well as he did that the election was decided from the moment I'd backed him. Yet the man still insisted on appearing tortured and restless. It went with his personality.

I looked at the television, bottle of champagne in range of my hand. Suddenly, the screen flashed, the presenter talked excitedly and Dima’s expressionless campaign picture appeared, with a nice majority of over seventy per cent. He gasped. I grinned. The worst was over now, for both myself and him. I could dedicate more of my time to a new goal, after conquering Russia.

Conquering Dmitry Anatolevich Medvedev.


End file.
